


A Drug Dealer's Memoir

by kwik



Category: creative writing - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Implied/Referenced Suicide, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22608694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwik/pseuds/kwik
Summary: A man is writing a memoir about his life in drug dealing and other sins he's took part in. He is depressed, but doesn't know it.also its still in progress lol





	A Drug Dealer's Memoir

“It’s been awhile since our last meeting.” A masculine voice exclaimed. 

“Yes, I apologize. I’ve gotten caught up in some personal things.” I heard another say.

“Right, but you know what happens when you don’t do what I ask?” 

A loud sigh came out of the other’s mouth. “Yes, I know.” 

I had been eavesdropping on these two for months. About 7 or 8 if I remember correctly. I was only 10 years old and this was at church anyway, so it was very captivating for me. When I was young, I didn’t understand what was happening. However, now that I’m much older, I believe they were dealing meth. Although, I’m not sure. I never learned who these two ever were, but every time I came around the hallway each Sunday, I always heard them talking in the study hall. I never watched them come out, I didn’t want them to see me. I just listened for about 5 minutes and left, every time. Sometimes their conversations would go on for much longer, but I’d always leave before the end of it. 

I usually tried to decipher who these people were. However, I never felt that I got very far in my investigations. Deciding who the drug dealer and druggie are when you’re a kid in church is a lot more difficult than I thought it would be. 

I’m about 20 now. Revealing my age online while confessing my stories of sins I’ve committed is not the ideal position I’d like to take. However, as I sit here, staring at a one page google document at midnight, I sense a feeling of loneliness but complete contentment. Contentment of possibly ending my life, and possibly a thousand other people feeling the same way I do right now. 

Life has always been a struggle for me. From growing up in poor, small town California, to making, injecting, and selling drugs. People call me at the most random times of day asking for the perfect dose of whatever they want. If they get my number from friends, co-workers, brothers, or sisters, I will never know. Some people, I recognize them. Sometimes they recognize me. At one point, I sold my 7th grade gym teacher meth. We totally recognized each other, but I never said anything. Just handed my product to him, and took my hard earned cash. In those awkward few second moments, I never know what to say. I just look with surprised eyes and move on. 

Ever since I was about 12, I’ve thought about taking my own life. To finally end the suffering I’ve endured for so long. To finally finish the pathetic life I’ve been living. Sometimes, my clients ask me to go to certain locations, sometimes I’m not too keen on doing this, but I usually comply. One time, I walked into a homeless shelter to give a man meth. I walked around the bodies and streams of people to get to this man in the back. I felt almost like a king looking down at his dirty, rat peasants. But then I realized that I’m a guy that sells meth to homeless people. 

I feel disgusting about my own life. I feel like a disgusting person. I feel like everything I put into the world is disgusting. Then, you’re probably wondering, why do I do this? What’s the point of selling drugs and making others suffer for every crime I commit? Truth is, I don’t know. And that very night I ruined that man’s life, I tried to kill myself. 

I drank a bit of clorox and downed a few random pills. A pathetic way honestly, but that’s besides the point. The next morning, I was in the hospital. My sister was right next to me. Just standing there with the heavy tear-filled eyes she always gives me everytime I do this. She was holding her hands in an awkward sort of way, like when you try to ask your crush out in middle school.

I scoffed at her this time. I was getting sick of looking at her face like that. Staring at me, with pure judgement and disappointment. Some would say it was a look of love, however no one loves me and no one ever will. I’ve been beaten, bruised, and mentally destroyed by my family and friends. No one has ever been there for me. No one. Just a couple of bucks in my wallet and some sort of shitty drug. I’ve had girlfriends sure, and in one case my step sister, but they’ve always double-crossed me somehow. By cheating, lying, leaving, whatever. It always happens eventually. 

I feel like maybe everyone drowns eventually in their own pool of regrets and self-made pities. Sometimes I feel connected to everyone I come across. But other times I feel like I’m just doing a complete disservice to everyone I meet. Sometimes I feel like I’m burdening someone by just standing next to them. Other times while just laying in bed, I remember moments when I’ve legitimately scammed people. After doing it only a couple of times I felt awful. I boarded up my windows for a couple of days and just slept. I really couldn’t handle my own presence. Most of me blames it on myself, even knowing that my uncle talked me into it. 

It sort of went like this.

“Hey kid, I’ve got this great idea for you and me.”

I sort of just rolled my body about 90 degrees and looked at him. He knew full and well that I wasn’t interested in whatever he had to say but he went on anyway. 

“Look, instead of actually working so hard on your little ‘meth project’ or whatever, we can make shit meth and sell it. Those disgusting things on the street couldn’t tell the difference.” 

I actually enjoyed making meth at the time. It was nice feeling useful and like a scientist or something at the time. Measuring things just right, making sure nothing overflows. It almost felt like being a chef in a five star restaurant. 

“I don’t actually want to do that. I enjoy doing this.” I said.

“You sure? ‘Cause you constantly look like shit. It’ll actually be good for us. Instead of being all cramped up in there, you can do an hour job and get to the streets quickly.” 

I bit my lip. I didn’t want to do this, but I couldn’t say no to a guy that is fully capable of beating his ex-wife to a pulp. I finally complied and just let him do whatever he wanted to my garage. He added a bunch of random stuff to it, I don’t even think he knows how to make something like that. 

I got a bunch of calls the day after and gave it all away. Two days in a row I was handing it out to random people and beggars. Most of the time I didn’t take money from them. I’d just throw at them and leave. It gave me a shitty name around the market for a couple weeks, but then the whole thing just blew over. But, it still crawls back into my mind every now and then.

My memories are a true virus to me. An infection that tears through my mind and destroys my body. That’s why suicide is the true medicine for me. The escape from all the torment that I trudge through. To finally be liberated from each and every thing I’ve done. I beg that there is no afterlife. I can barely live now from my sins, I can’t imagine being immortal.

I’ve been thinking about the way falcons dive before they swoop back up into the air. They almost die, everytime. Yet, they still do this. Scientists can’t think of any particular reason they do this except for the thrill. I know many people that live life like this. Even myself. Diving and diving, until we make a complete 180 and go back up. Why do we do this? Simply for the thrill. Except, there’s no more thrill left in my life. No more joyous moments to left to have. Just the neutrality of swimming across an empty ocean and the icy barrens of my frozen heart. I beg for another day left on this Earth with the pure innocent happiness that I once carelessly owned. I beg to jar it up and keep it close to myself with every moment that passes. But the chance of even a spark of joy lighting up ever in my mind is one in a billion. 

I imagine that one may ask me if I’d like to start all over. To be given the gift of life all over again, and to start brand new. And with that, my answer is no. The risk of destroying another’s life is a weight I cannot handle. It already crushes me like an elephant on top of a feather. And the simple mind wonders, what about drugs? You think the delirium I’ve gone through thousands of times is going to fix me? Then go fuck yourself.

The emotional pain I feel comes back physically, ten fold. My body constantly aches and burns. I’ve tried nearly every remedy for this. Exercising, pain killers, stretching, even trying to cause more pain in other parts of my body to ignore the other pain I was already feeling. Everything except acupuncture I guess. But I’m not trying that. There’s no use.

Sometimes, I feel immense amounts of rage towards myself. Rage so vast, I tear apart my house, destroy my room, and mutilate my body. I’ve broken my own fingers and toes out of pure anger. I’ve slashed my limbs countless times. I remember one day, when I was 16, I had completely shredded my left arm. I was at school, so I covered my wounds in toilet paper and I put my sweatshirt sleeves back up. When I got home, I was so overwhelmed that I had forgotten about my cuts. I rolled up my sleeves in front of my mother, I don’t remember why I did that, however when she noticed my makeshift bandages, she asked me to remove them. I remember slowly taking them off, the thin paper sticking to the dried blood. When they were completely off, I looked at my mother. Her eyes said horror but her face showed disappointment. She quickly turned her head away and I heard her choke back something that may have been a slight bit of emotion. She rarely showed any emotion, but when she did, you felt it too. I was much more worried about her than myself. 

“Mom,” my lower lip began to quiver. “Are you alright?”

“Go to… room..” She quietly muttered.

“W-what?”

“Go to your room!” She was yelling now, her eyes looking like mania mixed with frustration. 

I promptly pulled down my left sleeve and ran to my bedroom. That night, I received no dinner. I cried myself to sleep over and over again since I kept waking up from the pain in my arm. At first, cuts don’t hurt very bad at all, but once a few hours goes by, the pain really starts to kick in. At least for me it does. 

My arm scarred badly that day. Some of the gashes were permanent. 

I constantly feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I’m slipping in and out of feeling active and awake. Like I can’t control what I say or do and my senses are dulled. Like there’s cotton over my mouth and eyes and my consciousness is miles away. I’ve asked people about this, usually friends, they say nothing. They don’t understand what I’m going through. They don’t understand my forever falling into the abyss of inhuman and feral disagreement. My life as up to now has destroyed the thoughtful and comprehensive side of me. I can barely make a coherent sentence nowadays. I’m so deep in this. There’s no way of crawling out of the trench I’ve made myself. The creation of my internal and forever discord is an art piece I cannot destroy. I regret every choice I’ve made in my existence. I put paint on the canvas without even thinking about it. I made a failure with my own two hands. I made the opposite of a masterpiece. 

I wish there was a way I could describe my eternal damnation. Darkness? Death? Dissension? I guess this memoir is the best way to go about it. Maybe after I finally die, someone will take my suffering on paper, and read it, realizing that my life was truly a mistake. That every regret makes sense. That I’m miserable for selling meth to their uncle or something. 

Contentedness was never an option in this life. As I developed as zygote in my mother’s body, God said that He wanted my body crushed on the pavement and my head on a pike. Yet, I dodged every obstacle He put in my way and became the obstacle myself. Maybe that’s my reason for suffering. The reason why God makes me beg for an end. 

Some say that the smaller beauties in life will lead me to discover enlightenment or at least a small bit of happiness. Although, when I look upon children, animals, puppies, whatever, I only think of how I can ruin them. … 

I wonder if I made an impact on this horrible yet innocent world. An impact of, “you shouldn’t be here”. An impact of destroying so many others. An impact of another’s unhappiness. Do I float like a feather over the glass surrounding the Earth’s precious and favorite things, or do I break the glass like a hammer against a window?


End file.
